


Enzyme

by tiamatv



Series: The Neighborhood Watch [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Author!Castiel, Comfort Food, Fireman!Dean, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, Sweet Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Cas is the only damned person that Dean knows who can do nothing but raise an eyebrow, just that and nothing else, and still make it look like he’s crossing his arms and raising his chin."No," Cas says.“You won’t eat Hawaiian pizza,” Dean repeats. “At all.”(Yeah, it occurs to Dean that this argument is more than a little stupid, but since it’s also kind of fun, what the hell, why not.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: The Neighborhood Watch [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024039
Comments: 44
Kudos: 182





	Enzyme

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it looks like the Neighborhood Watch officially has gotten its first non-Promptober continuation! I suppose I should officially say "mind the pining," now... I hope y'all still enjoy these boys as much as I do! The finale really hurt me, so I'm trying to coax my muse back into behaving...
> 
> Not betaed--I really wanted to get this out before Thanksgiving! 
> 
> Just in case the series order thing isn't working properly: this should be set after Fragile (the Halloween story).
> 
> Happy Turkey Day, to those who celebrate it!

Dean’s pretty sure he never thought their first argument would be about something like this.

“No,” Cas tells him, and it’s like watching a mountain stretch into the sky or a house settle onto its foundations. Screw you, Mohammed, that mountain ain’t going anywhere.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean throws up his hands. “ _Seriously?_ ”

Cas is the only damned person that Dean knows who can do nothing but raise an eyebrow, just that and _nothing else,_ and still make it look like he’s crossing his arms and raising his chin.

Okay, he doesn’t _have_ two arms to cross, but that’s not the point: he’s an intimidating bastard when he wants to be, for a rumpled-up little guy with a serious set of eyebags and eternal lopsided bedhead, wearing sweatpants and a big t-shirt that goes down past his hips.

The expression’s also kind of hot, but that’s Dean’s cross to bear, and no-one else’s.

“You won’t eat Hawaiian pizza,” Dean repeats. “At all.”

(Yeah, it occurs to Dean that this argument is more than a little stupid, but since it’s also kind of fun, what the hell, why not.)

“I won’t,” Cas tells him.

“Because you don’t like the sweet and savory thing? Cas, man,” Dean protests. He’s kind of gotten the feeling over the past few months that there are a lot of things that Castiel Novak _says_ he doesn’t like, but that he hasn’t actually _tried_.

Case in point: there’s been a little bowl of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups sitting on the middle of the coffee table every time Dean’s come over since Halloween. Dean doesn’t come over that often—goddammit, he’s got a handle on this crush, okay? He’s got work and a life, Cas has work and a life. But sometimes there’s a neat little pile of orange wrappers beside the candy bowl, so the candy’s not there for Dean. And he hasn’t seen it empty _yet_.

(He also hasn’t seen Cas gain a single pound of weight, but with what Cas wears when he’s at home, plus the workout equipment he’s got in the basement, Dean’s not sure he’d be able to tell anyway. And he should _not_ even be looking that close, goddammit.)

“No, I won’t eat it because I _won’t_ ,” Cas answers, his eyes all flash and sky. Yep, forget the thick eyelashes and the cheekbones that Dean would probably have called ‘beautiful’ if they were on a girl, that is _stubborn,_ right there. “You are welcome to order it, but I won’t have any, and you are going to have to take the leftovers home.”

Dean mutters to himself, and scrolls down on the menu on his phone, shaking his head. That really sounds like the goddamned opposite of ‘you are welcome to order it,’ if anyone asks him. “Fine. Half half?” He lifts his head and narrows his eyes at his neighbor. “You got objections to pepperoni, too?”

“I have no objections to toppings that are unobjectionable,” Cas answers, tipping his chin up, prim as _fuck_.

Oh, no, Dean’s not having that bullshit. “Dude, that’s a tautology,” he complains. And yes, Dean knows what a fucking tautology is, so Sam can stow his smirking. “Either pick something or don’t pick something, but don’t be an asshole about it.”

Cas’s mouth twitches. The eyebrows come down from where he had them creased up and threatening, and he purses his lips. “I like pepperoni,” he says, a little less grouchily—though it’d be a stretch to call it ‘agreeable.’ “And mushrooms.”

Dean grunts as he pokes those two options for the other half of the pizza—he really could’ve just _said_ rather than making a fuss about it, what’s that about?

Cas gestures impatiently for Dean’s phone. “Here, I will pay for it.”

Dean knows better than to argue with him about that, ‘cause that is a fight that Dean suspects that he _won’t_ win, not with Cas’s back already up—and anyway, Cas is being kind of a jerk, he can pay for the damned pizza. Cas puts the phone down on the countertop and taps in his credit card information from memory before nudging it back towards Dean. Dean scoops it up and stuffs it back into his pocket.

They glare at each other for about thirty seconds more before the email chime confirming their order comes through, loud in the silence of Cas’s kitchen. Dean wants to say he’s not the one who breaks first, his lips twitching before he chuckles, but he’s not at all sure that’s true.

But Dean’s damned sure the way the lines soften off Cas’s forehead, his lips perking just slightly upwards before they settle back into their normal stern lines, is a lot prettier than whatever his own face is doing.

Dean huffs out the rest of his amusement and leans a hip against the kitchen countertop. He doesn’t know why they’re still both standing in the kitchen—other than that they went to raid Cas’s frankly obscene supply of takeout menus before they decided on something else; Dean didn’t know that there _existed_ that many places that delivered to their neighborhood.

“How come none of these are for pizza places?” he finally asks, tapping the messy pile still scattered across the granite countertop before fluffing it into a neater one. “Just ‘cause you have _really_ strong opinions about toppings?”

“Well, I have very strong opinions about a lot of things,” Cas answers, seriously. “But most people don’t bother to ask me for them, and, like you, they’d probably regret it if they did.”

And, okay, Dean isn’t actually annoyed by him—to be honest, he’s more amused than anything, ‘cause hell, Cas is sort of adorable when he gets his back up and his stubborn going like that. And maybe a little bit hot. Just a bit.

But the fact that Cas says that, and it’s not a joke—he _means it—_ all of a sudden makes this whole thing a little less funny.

“Hey,” Dean protests. “I never said _that_.”

Cas cocks his head like he thinks Dean’s missing the point. “I do like pizza, a lot,” he admits, “but I don’t see the benefit of ordering a pizza for one.” He glances up through his lashes, and his voice is a little softer, a little darker, when he says, “So thank you for sharing this one with me.”

Dean doesn’t want to ask about when the last time might’ve been that Cas had pizza, if he thinks that way about it. If the answer’s what Dean thinks it might be, Dean might do something stupid like walk right into him, squash him against the countertop, set his chin right over Cas’s good shoulder, and _hug_ him, and he’s got the feeling that shit is just not going to go across well.

“I mean, sure, buddy, hell, I’ll never say no to splitting a pie. But what’s wrong with having some leftovers for after?” Dean asks, instead of what he’s thinking. Which is ‘come over, come to my place, we’ll have pizza whenever you want.’

(That’s a lie. That’s not what he’s thinking. Even though he does know that Cas’s space is built with accommodations for him that Dean’s house doesn’t have.)

Cas frowns at him with a tiny wrinkle in the bridge of his nose. Dean needs to take at least one more step backwards, because he really has to stop thinking about touching Cas, even if it _is_ to just smooth out that small crease that starts between his eyes and tips up the end of his nose. “In general, nothing, I suppose,” he muses, rubbing the barest thin dark line of his scruff—he shaved this morning, Dean can tell. “But pizza microwaves badly.”

Dean scoffs. “Jesus, what kind of bachelor even _are_ you? _Cold pizza_ , Cas.” He waggles both eyebrows and grins. “For breakfast.”

This time, it’s not a _tiny_ wrinkle that creases up Cas’s face—his whole expression squishes up and collapses in in a way that is just not pretty, even for him. He complains, “That was a crime against humanity even when I was in college and didn’t have either taste _or_ sense. So I can’t imagine it’s improved with time.”

Dean doesn’t exactly disagree with that, but he’s pretty sure Cas isn’t going to buy the ‘yeah, but it’s so bad it kind of turns into something good’ argument. For someone who makes his whole livelihood on creative fiction, he can be _very_ literal when he’s got his back up.

Dean hasn’t entirely worked out yet how much of that is because Cas really does need to get out more—metaphorically, not literally; sometimes he really _doesn’t_ seem to get it—or because he’s kind of a troll when he wants to be.

(Dean shouldn’t be having this much fun trying to figure out when he is, though.)

“So toast ‘em up in your oven,” Dean points out, gesturing to the fancy oven under an equally fancy induction range with two gas burners; whoever set this place up was really planning on someone who is, just, well, _not Cas_. “You’ve got a nice one.”

Cas walks up to the oven and cracks it open, gesturing into it with a flick of his chin. Dean, sort of confused, wanders over to peer in. He doesn’t know which surprises him more: the fact that there are Tupperwares sitting in there on the baking racks, or the fact that Cas even _has_ Tupperwares.

(For what it’s worth. Some of them still have their plastic wrap on them. Goddammit, Castiel.)

“Oh, _Jesus Christ,_ ” Dean groans. “I gotta tell you, as a fireman the fact that you keep those in there really gives me the heeby-jeebies, buddy.” He throws up both hands. “You know that plastic gasses out shit like cyanide when it burns, right?”

Cas purses his lips out at him—goddammit, he really needs to not do _that,_ either—and lets the oven door fall shut (Dean doesn’t miss that it’s a soft-close handle, either; Cas really does have nice equipment). He answers, “Yes, I am aware of that. I know an alarmingly many ways to kill people.” He juts out his chin, and goddamn, the stubborn expression really is getting to be Dean’s favorite. “But I can count on the fingers of my _left hand_ the number of times I’ve turned on that oven.”

Dean gapes, and burps out a chuckle before he can swallow it. Shit, he is not sure if he’s supposed to laugh at that, especially since Cas still has his grumpy face on. Cas almost _never_ jokes about anything to do with his arm, never.

But Cas’s eyes are sparkling through the pout of his lips.

(Nope, _that_ look’s Dean’s favorite.)

“You really think you should be bragging about knowing how to kill people? Seriously, I always wonder if the FBI tags people like you on their watch lists ‘cause of all the weird stuff you’re always researching,” Dean muses.

“Probably,” Cas answers, calmly. “They came to talk to me, once. There was an investigation. I can mention it now because the case is closed.”

Dean stares at him.

Cas stares back, completely fucking guilelessly, and leans his hip on the countertop.

“What? No, no, you bastard. Okay, you gotta tell me about this,” Dean bursts out, when Cas just looking at him with that beautiful little shine in his face, like he’s just _daring_ him to ask, gets to be too much.

“How long did they say the pizza was going to take?” Cas asks, blinking sweetly. “I’m hungry.”

“What the fuck, _Cas_.” Then Dean narrows his eyes. “Wait, is this FBI thing a real story, or one of your made-up ones, because I swear to God—”

“I can’t help if you have trouble differentiating fiction and reality,” Cas retorts, lifting just one dark eyebrow, but they’re already meandering towards the living room and the sofa.

Dean is _almost_ sure that the FBI agent thing is a real story, but it really is goddamned hard to tell sometimes—and Cas has gotten him but good before. Cas is a fucking _master_ at his craft, and it’s not just that he’s good at his writing. He _is,_ of course he is, shit, he’s nearly a household name.

But Dean’s grumpy cave dragon, who’d never given out candy for Halloween and who Dean suspects hasn’t sat down to a family-style dinner in years, comes so alive when he’s telling his stories in person that it makes Dean’s heart hurt. When he talks like this, a guy can’t _not_ want to believe in the worlds he makes.

Cas waves his hand, lifts his bad arm to gesture with it, tips in his whole body with his eyes held innocently wide. Dean slaps the armrest because he’s laughing so hard at the poor damned FBI rookie who they sent on what Cas thinks was supposed to be a routine protocol interview, and who ran into a troll of a bestselling author instead. In response, Cas leans back with a smug tilt of his chin. Cas’s eyebrows waggle when he describes the look on the guy’s face when Cas shows him his binders of crime scene mockups; his cheeks crease with how big he smiles.

God, Dean knows he dictates his books: does he do all this when he’s doing that, too? Or is this just because he’s got an audience, and Dean can’t look away?

Cas doesn’t do public appearances, never has—even his interviews are all responses in print, through a list of questions delivered through Charlie. A tiny, selfish part of Dean is glad for that.

There are only a couple of people who get to see Cas like this. And Dean is so, so fucking lucky.

But he wishes Cas wouldn’t sit so close on the firm, comfortable little two-person sofa, one knee just barely touching the side of Dean’s thigh. He wishes Cas wouldn’t lean towards him like that with the way a big laugh is so damned rare for him, but it goes through his whole body.

He wishes, because all that shit makes Dean _want_ all the more, and if Dean ever let Pandora open that box he wouldn’t have this anymore. He knows. And Dean wouldn’t give this up for anything.

One day, when he’s over this, he’ll laugh about it. He’s never going to _tell_ Cas about it, because Dean having this enormous crush on Castiel Novak, his favorite author and probably Dean’s new best friend, is the most pathetic goddamned fucking thing in the whole wide world. Dean’s not a kid, he knows better than to crush on freakin’ straight men who are way out of his league _anyway_.

But here they are.

Sonofabitch.

The doorbell rings before Dean does anything stupid, though. It’s both a disappointment and a relief when Cas smiles and picks himself up from the sofa, already getting out his wallet, with its neatly folded little pockets of separated bills. Dean doesn’t offer to help him with the pizza boxes, but he does head into the kitchen and start pulling out plates and silverware. He hears the delivery guy offering to carry them in, though.

“No, I’ve got it,” Cas says, politely.

“Nah, man, really, I don’t mind, look—”

“I’m fine. Thank you. You can go.”

“But—seriously, it’s a big box—”

“See? No problem. I have it. Thank you.”

That’s when Dean’s teeth clench. He doesn’t go out there—Cas can handle his own damned self, he doesn’t need Dean to fight his battles—but goddammit. It _is_ true that they’ve gotten delivery a few times when Dean’s been here—not often, since Dean’s normally coming with the excuse of having food in hand—and that hasn’t happened before.

But why would it? Delivery carry bags mostly don’t need two hands, and probably most of the places Cas orders from—since he orders takeout more than any one person should—know him by now.

But Cas does have the large pizza box and the smaller box of garlic breadsticks on top of it well under control when he walks into the kitchen, his good arm curled under it, his bad one balancing the corner. He inhales, smiling happily. “Oh, that smells very good…” he trails off, and cocks his head. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

It occurs to Dean that he could probably lie. That maybe he should. Like he told Cas before, Cas’s body is none of his business. Maybe how other people treat Cas shouldn’t be any of his business, either, but that doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t _mad_ about it.

Shit, he can’t even really blame Cas for the fact that he doesn’t really like to leave the house and socialize—even though Dean knows he really has no trouble at all getting around.

“How come it doesn’t bother you?” Dean asks, finally. “When people are like that?”

Cas shrugs with both shoulders—a big motion, for him, for someone who pulls right back into himself whenever he’s not telling one of his stories. He slides the boxes onto the little breakfast table in the corner of his kitchen. “Sometimes it does. More than when they forget. I’d rather they forget,” he says, and shit, _that_ makes Dean’s heart hurt, right down to the roots. “But most strangers offer to be kind, not to be condescending, I think. So, mostly, I don’t like it because it’s an unpleasant reminder. There _are_ some things that are harder for me, and some things I can’t do easily. Some things I can’t do by myself at all.”

Dean grunts. He’s not at all sure about that.

To Dean’s surprise, Cas reaches out and pats Dean’s elbow. His chuckle is rough and soft. “Don’t even pretend, Dean, I’ve seen you help me out when I’m struggling. And I appreciate it, especially on… well, some days. So… thank you.” Cas quirks a little smile at him, and, adds, ruefully, “I probably won’t remember to say it on those days, so I’m saying it now.”

Days when the pain is bad, yeah. Dean’s seen Cas looking stiff and tight, his shoulders hauled up and his face pinched, and frankly, he expected to get his head bitten off the first time. He hasn’t worked up the guts yet to ask if Cas wants his back or shoulders rubbed, because… yeah, no, even Dean’s not that much of a masochist.

“I work with guys who abuse their bodies for a living,” Dean answers, instead, gruff because he really can’t take being thanked just for being a decent human being. “And who’d probably injure themselves again before they asked for help. So, y’know, thanks for actually having more sense than the guys I work with.”

“I really don’t want to hear about sense from someone who, along with his coworkers, voluntarily goes _towards_ fires,” Cas answers, but he’s smiling again. The hand he still hasn’t lifted from under the cup of Dean’s elbow feels like a stroke down Dean’s spine. “And I’m hungry.”

Why Cas even has a pizza cutting roller when he’s the kind of guy who’s got his Tupperwares in the oven is a mystery that they both puzzle over for a bit—though that gives Dean ideas: he hasn’t made mini pizzas since Sam was a kid, but that seems like it might be really fun if he could get the Sheriffs and Alex into it and maybe drag Cas out again. But for now, they both sigh huge, satisfied sighs over the generous, steamy, cheesy, slices on their plates.

Except.

“You know that pineapple juice is acidic enough to digest human protein?” Cas tells him, just as Dean’s got his pizza up to his mouth and about to take his first bite. “Its pH is similar to that of hydrochloric acid.”

Never mind, Grumpy’s still grumpy. And still _determined_ to have the last word.

Dean puts his slice back down, eyeing a bright yellow wedge of pineapple warily, and looks up. Then he glares, realizing. “Wait, hell no, that’s not how weak acids work! And I know that from _your books_.”

“My books are fiction, Dean.” Cas blinks at him, slowly, like a cat, but Dean’s got a handle on his expression now, and he is _not_ going to cave to this cranky, fluffy dragon across from him.

Dean crosses his arms and tips back in his chair, staring him straight in the eyes. He’s not going to dignify that with an answer. Cas forgets that sometimes Dean arrives when Cas is on the phone with Science Geek Number 210 at Ye Olde Grande University Medical Center. And Cas has told him about going to body farms for research. (Gross. Okay, cool. But still gross.) Cas takes the little sciency details in his ‘fiction’ _pretty damned seriously_.

For once, Cas is the one who drops his eyes first. He pulls a piece of pepperoni off his slice—one of the edge pieces that are just a little crispy from the heat of the oven. “Pineapple _is_ acidic and bromelain _is_ used as a meat tenderizer, though,” Cas mumbles, a little sulkily, and pops his prize into his mouth. “It’s an enzyme that’s found in pineapple, and it digests protein.”

“Not if I digest it _first_ ,” Dean answers, with a big chomping bite of his pizza.

It’s been awhile since he’s had Hawaiian, but the mix of sweet and salty and the pop of warm juice in his mouth is _just_ as good as he remembers it being. So _maybe_ Dean doesn’t exactly close his mouth when he chews.

Cas sighs in what looks like exasperated disgust, but Dean doesn’t miss the way his eyes squinch in a little smile before he starts on his own food. Once Cas is done picking off his pieces of pepperoni and eating them one by one (Dean’s not even going to comment on that) he folds his slice of pizza neatly in half and scoops it up. Dean’s not watching, exactly—okay, he _is_ watching, but he’s not staring, okay?—and the slice has got just barely enough structure to it that it only droops a little, folded up the way it is.

Cas takes his first nibble and says, agreeably, “Mm,” as he lowers his elbow to the table and chews. A bit of mushroom gets caught in the cheese on the end of his slice, and he lips it up. “That’s very nice.”

(He swallows first, before he talks, because unlike Dean, Cas has manners.)

“So you agree with me that you were just grumpy and hangry about the toppings?” Dean teases. But he remembers to finish chewing before he says anything this time.

“I agree to no such thing,” Cas answers, after eating another bite, dipping his chin and turning a little sideways to catch the slow sag of cheese on the— _Jesus really hates Dean_ —tip of his tongue, nipping the mozzarella blend off with his teeth. “Only that ‘hangry’ is an awful portmanteau, and I’ll thank you to not use it. This is good pizza, and you should also have a piece of it, once you’re tired of your abomination.”

 _Abomination._ God, this guy is awesome. This time, Dean laughs. “I did not peg you for being picky, seriously, like… you’re not picky about anything else.” Dean would know, he brings food over at least a few times a week. And he’s a good cook, but he’s not a _great_ cook, and it’s more likely to be mac’n’cheese or beef stew than chicken cordon bleu or whatever.

Besides, it’s _not_ like he makes extra just for Cas. Dean’s always cooked big, because before now, he just… never _had_ to cook for one. So when he moved away from Sam and Eileen, he started bringing all the leftovers to the firehouse to let the locusts at ‘em. Nowadays, he just keeps aside a portion for his neighbors, if there’s enough—yes, _all_ of them! Donna and Jody and Alex. And if there’s just enough leftovers for two, well, wouldn’t be fair to bring _that_ over to the Hanscum-Mills house, and no point in bringing it to the firehouse, so who’s he gonna share it with but Cas?

(Jesus Christ. Who the fuck does Dean think he’s fooling?)

This time, Cas laughs—it has that small, self-deprecating rumble to it, but he sounds like he means it, too. “I suggest you drop by the next time my editor and I are having _words,_ ” he chuckles.

“They anything like Charlie?” Dean asks. Sure, his first meeting with Cas’s agent was a little rocky—and being called right out on his crush on Cas the first time he met the redheaded fireball _really_ fucking sucked, and if she’d done it in front of Cas, Dean doesn’t know what he’d have done. But honestly, Dean likes her. Cas needs more people like that in his life. How come he doesn’t have pizza with _her?_

This time, Cas’s bark of laughter is hard enough he puts his pizza slice back down so he can cover his mouth. “Oh, God. I don’t know who would be more offended by that comparison, Charlie or Hannah.” His eyes are shining blue and still all these beautiful little happy creases at the edges when he lowers his fingers enough that the bow of his top lip curves pink, a little over them. “I don’t think they like each other much.”

Dean snorts. “You don’t _think?_ Buddy, seems like something you should know, or not know.”

“I’m not foolish enough to get in the middle of two very strong-willed people who can each, individually or collectively, ruin my life,” Cas answers, very seriously.

Oh, right. Cas is a lot smarter than Dean is.

(He also licks pizza grease off his fingers, his tongue sneaking pink in between them as he cleans them off one at a time, in a way that should come with a fucking _warning_.)

They both work on their individual slices in silence, enjoying cheese and base and _damn_ , this tomato sauce. But Cas still frowns cutely when Dean reaches for his second slice of Hawaiian.

Dean laughs, and toasts him with the slice. “You wanna order deep dish next time? I won’t get pineapple on that, promise.”

He _doesn’t_ expect Cas’s eye roll. “I’m from Illinois, Dean, deep dish pizza only really _exists_ in that state. Anything elsewhere is just pizza with plenty of puff, and probably not enough cheese.”

Dean blinks. He… _didn’t_ actually know that Cas was from Illinois, so that’s news to him.

Cas continues, in that firm, lecturey tone he gets sometimes, his chin firm under that delicate, delicate touch of dark five o’clock shadow, “I _also_ object to true ‘deep dish’ being called ‘pizza,’ it’s actually tomato soup on melted cheese, in a pie crust.” He shrugs. “Anyone who attempts to eat it with their hands is either a small child with parents who aren’t watching, or a tourist.”

“Still sounds awesome,” Dean answers, mildly. “Illinois, huh?”

Cas bobs his chin and focuses on the next bite.

“And how do you eat New York pizza, then?” Dean teases him.

“Like any civilized being does. With parmesan and red pepper flake. And a fork. After blotting all the oil off with a napkin, first.” Cas blinks, slowly, and lowers his slice back down to the plate, giving Dean a squinty, pitying look. “Hasn’t anyone taught you that?”

Dean considers throwing a piece of ham at him, but he’s a grown-ass mature individual, thanks. Which is why he waits until Cas has his mouth full before he points out, “Weird thing for someone to say who sucks on his fingers after he eats _spaghetti_.” Never mind that Cas wiping the tomato sauce off the corners of his lips and the dip under his chin with his thumb and then sticking that digit into his mouth, rather than using a napkin, almost gave Dean a coronary.

Cas flushes, but Dean _still_ can’t get him to talk with his mouth full, dammit. He swallows before he mumbles, “Your bolognese sauce was very messy, but it was delicious.”

Oh, goddammit. Dean can’t take him when he’s being sweet. He reaches out a bare foot and bumps Cas’s ankle, gently. Dean doesn’t offer to make the spaghetti with meat and tomato sauce again, but he knows he will. Might even still have some of the summer cherry tomatoes from Donna’s garden in the freezer…

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t pop the last piece of tomato-stained pineapple in his mouth with every evidence of enjoyment, though, before sitting back in his chair, ignoring Cas’s nose-crinkle of disgust. They settle into a comfortable, overfull silence. Dean burps, once, then sheepishly mumbles, “’Scuse me,” ‘cause he’s not a complete caveman.

Cas sighs, finally. Something almost like a smile touches his face and then leaves. It’s not an expression that Dean’s seen on him before, though, and Dean’s spent way too much time in the past few months looking at Castiel Novak.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he finally asks.

“They’re not worth that much.” Cas shakes his head. “One of my brothers used to love pineapple on his pizza,” he says, softly. He flicks a finger towards Dean’s side of the table. “Hawaiian was his favorite, too. He’d put hot sauce on it.”

“Well, clearly great minds think alike,” Dean answers, cheerfully. “Hey, what changed his mind?”

Cas doesn’t smile back. He turns a discarded mushroom over with his fingers. “Oh.” He shakes his head, and doesn’t look up. “That’s not what I meant. Nothing changed his mind. I’m pretty sure he loved them until the day he died.”

Dean presses his back against the chair and puts down the breadstick he was picking at.

Cas doesn’t talk about his family much. Only enough for Dean to know that he’s the youngest of five, all boys; his dad split years ago. Talking about them always seems to make Cas uncomfortable. Dean knows better than to press; he still doesn’t talk much about his own dad, either, and it’s been years. Cas’s cousin, Anna, was the one who helped get Cas set up here, and he credits her with the reason his house is put together so nice.

Dean’s never asked why his brothers didn’t. Not everyone’s close like him and Sammy, and even they had their rough patches.

“Shit,” and now Dean really _does_ feel like a goddamned tool.

Cas’s smile stretches the corners of his lips, painful, before he lets them go again. “You didn’t know.”

Yeah, Dean didn’t know—he _couldn’t_ have known—but why couldn’t he just have let the goddamned toppings _go_?

But Cas shakes his head, and this time, he does smile, tiny, bittersweet. “I think you’re the first person who didn’t ask if he was drunk? But they all knew him, I guess.” Dean sucks in a sharp, shocked breath, his eyes going wide—he knows about alcohol, yeah, he knows _a lot_ about it; with his dad, more than he knows he should. But seriously, what kind of fucking assholes would even— "And Gabe always drove too fast and lived hard—he really did, I envied him that a bit—so I don’t think anyone would’ve been surprised if he were.” Cas looks up. His face is cold and serious, and the walls Dean hasn’t seen in months now are very high. “He _was_ drunk. But he wasn’t driving.” He tips his head a little to the side, and it’s not birdlike at all, this time. “I was. But I was the one who made it.”

And he gestures with his chin towards the stump of his left arm.

He doesn’t say ‘most of me,’ because that’s too dark a joke even for Cas.

The air leaves Dean’s lungs. “ _Jesus Christ,_ Cas,” he squeezes out. “You don’t… fuck, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don’t.” It’s _Cas_ who reaches across the table and holds Dean’s wrist—hard, his fingers digging in, his muscles firm, strong. Dean realizes that his own hand, on the table, is clenched up into a fist, greasy fingers against his palm. “That’s not what I mean, Dean. I’m not…” he lowers his eyes and shakes his head and, to Dean’s shock, he… _chuckles._ “That’s not… I hated pineapple on pizza _long_ before that. And it’s… strange, but it’s nice. To be reminded that other people still have terrible taste.”

Okay, Dean has no fucking idea how to respond to that.

He’s pretty sure Cas just told him something he never, ever talks about. With anyone.

He’s also pretty sure he was just insulted by the guy he has a crush on.

Yeah, no idea how to respond.

“I know I have a lot of damage.” Cas smiles, rueful but real, like that’s something he can just _say_ with a smile and not have it be something that rips someone’s heart out. “I know. But I’m glad that you don’t… you don’t tiptoe around me. You… push.” His eyes duck, like looking at Dean is too much. “So… thank you for that.”

Dean swallows.

“C’mere,” he says, pushing to his feet with a scrape of the chair.

Cas glances up at him—a little raw, a lot suspicious. His eyes are blue as the hottest part of a fire, and dry, like he’s not saying anything that hurts him. “Why?”

“Because I’m gonna hug you,” Dean tells him, his heart in his throat, and the rough deep rasp of that making it all sound a lot more like a threat than anything, “and you really don’t want me hugging you in a chair, I knocked over Sammy once doing that.”

Cas lets out a tiny little sound that might be a laugh when it grows up, but he stands up, slowly, the chair grating against the kitchen tile. He doesn’t move, though. His expression is still a little confused, and God, Dean should not be finding that adorable, should not be wanting to reach out and tuck his thumb into that tiny dip under Cas’s bottom lip because of the way it curves, soft.

That’s okay. Dean knows how to do _this_.

When Dean steps twice in and wraps Cas up in his embrace—over and around both of Cas’s arms, crossing at midline—not a fucking bro hug, with one arm between, that’s not what this is—Cas doesn’t hug back for about three horrible heartbeats.

But when he does, he _melts_. He tucks himself into Dean’s body in a shocking little wiggle; he scoots his chin over Dean’s shoulder in a little breath-catching tilt. His good arm circles, curls into the small of Dean’s back until his hand is resting between against the base of Dean’s scapula, and, after a hesitant minute, Cas takes a deep inhale. It presses his chest into Dean’s in a warm nudge. He doesn’t push away. He doesn’t let go.

Dean closes his eyes, because there’s no-one to see him do it. Cas’s sweatpants are warm and soft against his own. Their knees bump. His hair smells like garlic bread and a little musky, like he should probably shower. It’s awkward. It’s wonderful.

And Cas still doesn’t let go.

Which is why Dean asks, softly, “Hey. D’you have plans for Thanksgiving?”

“Hmm? No,” Cas mumbles into his shoulder. He leans in a little more, giving Dean a bit of his weight like he has no idea one of them’s supposed to disengage. Well, Dean’s not gonna be the one to tell him. “Charlie always invites me, but I don’t like interrupting her and Dorothy.”

Goddammit, Cas. Dean rubs his back, gently. “Well, you’ve got plans this year,” Dean tells him, turning just enough that he’s talking into the side of Cas’s head, just in front of his ear, before he realizes that Cas could take that as a weird kind of kiss. “With me an’ my brother and Eileen.”

Cas is silent for a long moment, just breathing. He doesn’t tug away. If anything, he sort of burrows deeper, _fuck,_ when’s the last time someone just tucked Cas in like this? If his own _brothers_ aren’t asking him over for Thanksgiving?

“This is you pushing again, isn’t it,” Cas finally sighs, turning his head a little. The warm whisper of it into the side of Dean’s neck is almost too much.

“Mmhm,” Dean says, agreeably. Cas made a big mistake telling Dean he was okay with it—even a little. And Dean’s not gonna let him take it back.

Cas is the one who lets go and steps back, his hand moving a slow, exquisite slide down Dean’s flank as they disengage. Dean doesn’t try to hold him there, but Cas’s expression is soft and shaky when he says, “I don’t want to make your family celebration awkward with a stranger, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not like that. It’s just us, it’s just like Sunday dinner, just, y’know. More food.” He smiles. It’s true, too. That’s the thing about living just a few towns over from his brother and sister-in-law, even if he doesn’t live in their pocket anymore. And Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. “’Sides, it’ll be fun. They’ve been wanting to meet you anyhow.” Or at least they will once Dean tells them he’s bringing a friend. “You and Sam can geek out together over serial killers. And someone’s gotta sweeten Eileen up, because she took both my head _and_ Sammy’s off the last time I was there. Pretty sure her pregnancy hormones aren’t doing any of us any favors.”

Cas makes a soft, deep, displeased grunting noise, and rears back. “Well, if you told her _that_ —”

“Not _that_ dumb, Cas,” Dean interjects, dryly.

Cas huffs, but he shakes his head, once. Twice, like he’s trying to clear away dottle. Dean knows the feeling, though probably for a completely different reason; he’s pretty sure his chest is going to be feeling warm and tight and wanting from that hug at least until the next time he sees Cas.

“What…” Cas clears his throat. He drops his gaze to the curve of his hand, lying open-palmed against the front of his thigh, and Dean knows for _sure_ he’s going to back out. Up until he asks, very quietly, “What can I bring for the table?”

Ordinarily, Dean would say something like ‘wine,’ because Sam loves that shit and Dean thinks it tastes like toxic grapes. But with what Cas told him, the fact that he turned away even a nip of hard cider on Halloween makes a lot of awful, awful sense. “You know a good place to get a pie?”

Cas considers, then nods, firmly. He raises his gaze again. “I’ll find one.”

It sounds like a promise.

Dean can’t help the smile that spreads, bright, over his lips. “Good,” he says. And it is. “It’ll be awesome.”

“But I should tell you that I don’t like turkey, either,” Cas tells him, very fucking seriously.

Oh, goddammit.

This time, Dean flicks him on the ear.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> So, yup, there's at least a bit of the background of what happened to Cas. I'm so sorry it was Gabe, but... he seemed to be the one who'd fit the best into this situation. 
> 
> On a lighter note, that's all true about non-pasteurized pineapple juice and pineapples, too!
> 
> (And for the record: I love sweet-salty, but I definitely feel as Cas does about both Hawaiian toppings and cold pizza!)
> 
> Next up: Charlie, and more actual neighboring!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and if you would like to fuss about Destiel with like-minded folk, please come join us in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond)!


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